Coruscant: The Tale of a Scoundril
by D. Walz
Summary: Story in the Star Wars Universe. I wanted the main character to have some Han Solo qualities :


Here it is: a story in the StarWars universe NOT including characters important and/or vital to the movies.

I was sick of people using those characters, like Luke and Han and so on. You see, I wanted a tale of originality, yet conveniently placed in the StarWars world.

As it comes, you gotta make things yourself. Anyway, enjoy.

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Snores filtered in through the dark corridor.

He shrank quickly back against the wall, a faint light emitting— but not enough to calm him.

Something strange was happening… the entire ship's system was faulty. Dorean should have known better than to stow away on a mere merchant ship; he'd heard more than enough tales of these junk-heaps, and he wasn't exactly pleased with them.

A shame that he'd run out of patience so quick back in the hangar bay, else he could have hung around and stowed away on a better-equipped ship. Perhaps a simple factory-import ship, a damn Bantha-export even.

A better choice indeed than the ship he now found himself in.

The power was flickering now, the door to the luggage-immaculate section he was floundering twitching frequently. Apparently, the door had been closing itself when the circuitry failed.

Now, it was _half-closed_, an all too real sign that Dorean's choice of ship was nothing hitherto Bantha Dung.

Ah, he thought as he studied the sparks flinging in the dark corridor beyond the faulty door, at least I am away— finally gone from the damned life back home.

It had taken him weeks to simply plan out his escape, let alone actually _leave_ and find the station… ports these days were especially dung-hide; he was sure he had been spat at by more than one filthy creature. Gungans, too. He had heard of them, seen one before even, but the overwhelming sight of so many in one place had caught him off-guard. He was sure the party had seen him.

What were Gungan's even doing at that space-port anyway? Dorean wasn't sure, for his knowledge of the spacious systems was at a minimal, but he didn't think that Gungans were the most tolerant of races.

They'd be better off back in Naboo, he mused. Clumsy warriors and soldiers alike.

The stowaway closed his eyes, letting the hum of the ship's terrible circuitry consume his thoughts. If he could just wait awhile, zero out the now, he could just imagine how great the future would be, when he finally would be gone from the damn dust ball Tatooine.

Just then, Dorean heard a soft voice ring out in the hall. His eyelids flicked open; he could see the silhouette of two figures along the dark hallway. He ceased his thoughts immediately and trained his ears on the doorway. It was a hoarse sort of whisper, a raspy trailing one. Nevertheless, despite the tone, it unsettled him.

"The ship's failing," that voice muttered coolly. "You should have planned for this. It won't hold up for an entire trip to Bespin."

"Damn," a second voice swore, this one much more gruff. "I ain't the best at plannin', I'll tell ye."

There was a momentary pause.

"Obviously."

"Don't ye play games with me, Syresh!" The second voice scowled.

"I do not 'play games,'" the first, one Syresh, growled, a hint of sarcasm evident. "We must land on the nearest system."

"The trackin' meter's down, ye Bantha fodder," the second voice said angrily, "an' there ain't no way o' figurin' out which planets are within this here system!"

"No need," Syresh muttered after another pause. "Gaze upon our stop!"

There was the customary silence that obviously was the second voice gazing out the one little, compact windowpane in that corridor.

"Coruscant," he said easily.

Dorean was not the only one to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Now. Attend to the computer; I'll just make sure that back-up armory you had to waste your credits on is actually functional," Syresh said coolly. "You installed it in the luggage-end?"

"Aye, the cargo-hold!" The first voice replied.

Dorean nearly stumbled over; it took him only a few minutes to understand the implications.

That damn Syresh was coming.

Looking quickly around, he dove for the larger piece of equipment beside him, tucking into a roll at the last second to silence and cushion his landing. He arrived behind it momentarily, then turned a quick right and shrank back against it.

The hard crack of heavy boots on a smooth floor rang out over the ever-continual spray of sparks through the half-closed door. Dorean took a deep breath, then mustered his wits and managed to peer around the bulk of equipment.

Syresh was nothing he had imagined him as. The hair was long and lank; he was clad in a strange sort of stained armor that looked as if it had been tossed together in a backwood junkyard. The man's bulk, too, was enough to throw him off. His honed muscles and sheer size belittled the raspy voice, and when Syresh reached out, he revealed a dark, blackened hand, surrounded by a strip of robotic material at the wrist.

Dorean shuddered; cyborg replacements never ceased to bother him. It always meant that the owner was of malevolent stuff, not good intentions in the least. It also meant that somewhere along the lines, this fellow had managed to get his limb lopped off.

Sure, if he had been a Jedi, Dorean couldn't blame him, but by the looks of this Syresh, that didn't seem a likely probability. Jedi were the noble cause, the honor that kept the Republic out of harm's way. And, unless this less-than-noble man was Sith, which Dorean did not consider likely either, he had not lost his right hand by the clean cut of a lightsaber.

Thus, he came to the conclusion that the man had likely gotten in some sort of vile tumble.

Dorean blinked once and watched as Syresh reached out and slid two black fingers across a panel on the wall, a large closet-like object outstretched. Two panels covering the object moved open, revealing a storage unit.

Dorean was startled as he saw the contents: many blasters stacked one over the other; the entire unit was overstocked. It was a wonder that it even held closed. He squinted his eyes and studied the one blaster that Syresh had chosen— a dark silver color, longer on the blaster end yet only slightly bulky on the hilt, achieving almost graceful balance.

I'll be damned! his thoughts screamed. That was a new model; perfected by some sort of rich gang hierchy on the streets.

Dorean looked down at his own blaster, a pitiful old thing that was awkward and unbalanced. "Garbage," he growled.

"Who the—?" Syresh snarled. Dorean snapped a hand to his pursed lips. He hadn't realized he'd said that aloud.

"Who is there?" Syresh said again, louder still. "Leffus! Put her on autopilot; something's about!"

Dorean looked around and spotted a piece of rubble on the smooth floor. He snatched it up and looked quickly around the bulk. With a nod, he tossed it behind Syresh, who jumped and without hesitation put a large hole in the ground floor in the general direction.

Now that's a blaster, he thought.

More footsteps rang out as the other man, Leffus, ran into the cargo-hold. Syresh tossed him a second blaster, an elongated one with an odd, curved handle. Dorean recognized it as one of the more foreign models. He wasn't quite familiar with them.

Then Leffus noticed that great hole that Syresh has blasted into the floor.

"Aw, Syresh, ye dog, ye can't just go blastin' anywhere ye want!" he howled as smoke emanated from the fresh defect. "Ye could destroy the ship."

"It's not as if it makes this ship seem any more wretched," Syresh replied rather typically. "And besides... there is someone in here!"

Leffus looked around alarmed, holding his new-found blaster up high.

Dorean held out his own blaster with ease.

With a deep breath, he stood up.

The lights flickered; sparks began to spray. All power went out.

And then there was darkness.


End file.
